


Orenda

by thelastkookie369



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23391058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastkookie369/pseuds/thelastkookie369
Summary: Hermione has the chance to save everyone. And what if the way to do so isn’t to take Tom Riddle down, but to help him achieve his goals?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/ Tom Riddle - Relationship, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	1. Dépaysement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feeling of not being at home, in a foreign or different place, whether a good or a bad feeling; change of scenery

The trio runs down the staircase, momentarily escaping the madness of battle. Hermione’s mind is still lingering on the whereabouts of the diadem as the Slytherin house point Hourglass shatters above them, with glass and emeralds raining down. At this moment bodies also rain down on them. The trio halts and look to each other in shared horror.

Greyback is tearing at something that Hermione dully recognizes Lavender Brown.

Ron lets out a pained whisper, “Oh no, not Lav.”

Thoughts turn into actions as the witch blasts the werewolf away from the girl.  
The trio rushes to Lavenders side and Hermione kneels down and begins assessing her injuries. They are severe. Greyback twitches and moves as if to stand weakly, but before he can a crystal ball makes contact with his head. He crumples as thousands of shards scatter, leaving nothing but the sound of inhuman whispers of prophesies unforetold in the air.

“Harry, we have to get her to the Great Hall, she has lost too much blood!” Hermione exclaims. Harry nods grimly and levitates her body. Another crystal ball is thrown. It whizzes over Hermione’s head and breaks. The whispers come again.

“Do you guys hear that, what are they saying?”

“Hear what Hermione?” Harry calls over his shoulder. Him and Ron have already continued their path down the stairs.

“You hear the whispers?” Comes the airy voice of Professor Trelwaney. So it was her who threw the crystal balls. “It turns out you possibly do have a knack for divination. Oh my dear, but you don’t.” She gasps, startled by a realization. Her buggy eyes look anywhere but Hermione.

“What are you trying to say Professor?” Hermione bites out in exasperation, she has more important matters to get to. More lives to save. She compartmentalizes the feeling of Lavender’s blood on her hands, far away from the front of her conscious.

Finally, the divination professor’s eyes meet hers, but they are no longer the professor’s. They have gone white. “Oh curious girl. Warrior and wanderer. She fell. She will fall again. She rose. She dragged him down with bloodstained hands. She will.”

Hands push hard on her back and she is sent over the edge of the corridor, flying into the spot left vacant by a recently moved staircase.

She falls for what feels like an eternity. Until it isn’t.

The combination of getting the wind knocked out of her and ache of holding her breath while underwater renders the fallen girl gasping for breath. Unable to register her surroundings, all Hermione feels is a resounding pain vibrating through her body. Blinking bleary eyes open, she sees floating candles. Too similar to the ones in the Great Hall. Her lungs squeeze. She coughs up blood.

Grunting, Hermione pushes herself to her feet whilst drawing the wand. Wordlessly casting protego duo, she takes in her surroundings while settling into a shaky dueling stance, unsure of the allegiances of the people in the room. Students are scrambling back from her table to the edges of the hall, how strange considering the number that fled Hogwarts because of the war. There is a shocking number of younger ones, considering they had all been apparated to safety.

Slowly, the fishbowl effect on her hearing lessens and she is able to register that amongst the cacophony of screams there is a voice speaking with authority.

“I repeat. State your name, means of arriving here, and intent. You will be apprehended in the next thirty seconds of continued lack of response.”

Hermione’s face contorts in confusion. How do they not know my name? And  
who is speaking. Why isn’t their automatic response to help me or curse me?

She rotates clumsily on her feet, searching for the source of the voice, only to find a man resembling Dumbledore standing at the head of the table she landed on. He has his wand drawn, and a few unidentifiable professors stand slightly behind him.

Something is painfully not right.

She makes the hasty decision to answer the mans questions. Maybe in the process she can figure out the answers.

“My name is Hermione,” her voice cracks but she pushes on after clearing her throat, “ I was just upstairs you see, on the staircases. Next thing I know, I was falling, and I landed here.” She frowns and looks up, as does the likeness of Dumbledore. There is no evidence of her falling through the ceiling. And the moving staircases are not above the Great Hall. “As for my intent,” her brow furrows, “I did not intend to end up in the Great Hall, so I do not have a complete answer for you on that either.”

She scans the cluster of professors as they murmur to each other. Her eyes nervously snap to the sides of the hall. Students are being escorted out. There is no one she recognizes. What is this? Where is this? It is not the Hogwarts she left behind. The room is not in the same condition she had last seen it. When is this?

“Alright then, Hermione. Why was casting a powerful shield the first thing you did?” The almost Dumbledore questions, less assertive and more conversational now. What a ridiculous question. Who wouldn’t throw up a shield charm in her situation? She holds in a huff.

“In the midst of a war, it is a refelx. And utterly stupid for someone to not do so.”

“At this point one would be able to have accessed the threats in the room and determined that none exist, Miss Hermione. I kindly ask that you lower your defenses and we move to a more, ah, neutral place for further discussion.” Blue eyes begin to take on a twinkle behind half moon spectacles.

Interestingly, this man really does sound like Dumbledore. Her heart clenches and breathing escapes her once more. His wand. It is the same as Dumbledore’s.

“Dumbledore.” She gasps, a tear running down her face. The weight of all to happen bearing down on her.

She meets Dumbledore’s crystal blue eyes. She trusts this man with her life.

Hermione dispels her shield, and shifts out of her dueling stance, but still keeps her wand tightly clenched.

“Wonderful, thank you, Hermione. If you would graciously take a seat at the table you find yourself on. We can have a conversation. Headmaster Dippet, Professor Merrythought, and myself will sit opposite you.” His tone has grown less conversational. Probably because of her outburst. She had forgotten he doesn’t know her as she does him.

She squints as she stumbles off the table, maintaining a constant observance of the room. Everyone but the three mentioned have cleared out.

Suddenly she makes sense of what this Dumbledore said. He had called another man Headmaster. So this was a time before Dumbledore became Headmaster. According to Hogwarts a History, he was appointed in 1964.

It cannot be possible to have traveled this far back. Based on everything she knew to be true. The witch’s lips flicker in a wry smile. At one point she had believed magic to not be real. Anything could be possible.

She needs a backstory. A good one. Her next sentences are perhaps the most important ones to ever be said. She had already told them she came from a war, perhaps she was lucky enough to happen upon Grindelwald’s war to use that as a cover, instead of admitting being from the future.

“Pardon, what is the date?”

“September 30, 1944.” The woman professor responds, eyeing her suspiciously.

Hermione weaves her backstory in her mind. She was fighting in the war against Grindelwald. She had been homeschooled previously. She was a half-blood. Her parents were gone. Her goal is to be as vague as possible while staying as close to the truth as possible. But she somehow needs to get Dumbledore to trust her.

“I feel it only proper to have a better introduction of ourselves. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, in charge of teaching Transfiguration. This is Headmaster Armando Dippet on my left, and Professor Bakdkd Merrythought in charge of Defense Against the Dark Arts here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But you seem to have known some of this already, Miss—?” Dumbledore inquires, outstretching his hand.

“I cannot give you my last name, it could endanger the people I left behind.” The witch out of time begins softly. She reaches to meet the professor’s hand only to find her hand crusted with blood.

Her body wretches forward in a dry heave, scenes of a werewolf ripping a girl’s body apart play across her mind. Had the boys been able to save Lavender? Were her boys safe? Did they think she had died? Were they even still alive? Her mind splinters into hundreds of other questions that race too fast for her to grasp onto coherently.

“HERMIONE!” A familiar voice booms. Her mind whips forward and her vision streams back into focus. Wheezing, she notices her hand clenched tightly between two older ones. She focuses on that feeling. A small comfort.

Dumbledore regards Hermione with a look of sympathy, “I apologize for not holding more importance to your words of where you have come from.”

Dippet adds on, “I think we should let the girl rest and continue our conversation tomorrow.”

Merrythought’s nose scrunches, “I hardly think this girl’s comfort matters more than the lives of all of our students and staff.”

Hermione forces herself to think of something to say, but her mind is still far away, thinking of the time she left behind.

“I think it best our guest rests up. Let us take her to the infirmary, which we can ward for everyone’s safety.” Dumbledore finalizes. He stands and walks around the table. “Come, I think you are also in need of some Dreamless Draught, that’ll do the trick”.

Hermione makes to stand but black dots overtake her vision within seconds.

— Not Even 10 minutes Ago, Great Hall—

Dark magic radiates off the girl in waves.

Tom is ushering shrieking students out of the Great Hall. The girl staggers up and casts a powerful shield charm.

How intriguing.


	2. Kalopsia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The delusion of things being more beautiful than they are.

Walking the familiar stone corridors, Hermione shrugs off a feeling of looming despair that threatens her freshly positive mindset. 

Pausing at a massive window, she soaks in the beauty of the green hills of Scotland. They stretch on bountifully for as far as the eye can see. She could almost kiss them. 

She is back at Hogwarts, one that isn’t war torn. Her home. Her favorite place. The minutes until she can get to the library seem endless. 

She had slept for three full days. When she woke up, she told Dippet and Dumbledore everything they needed to hear to let her remain at Hogwarts. They believed her. An assessment of her abilities was done, resulting in her attending as a seventh year Gryffindor. 

Again? Or for the first time? This time business was tricky stuff. Hermione had decided to not trouble herself with these concerns until she had done more reading. The degree with which she could settle into this time was still yet to be determined, so for the mean time laying low while getting N.E.W.T. scores is the best option. 

Of course, certain people remain skeptical of her. She doesn’t blame them. How could anyone be expected to warmly welcome an intruder? That is what she is to them. 

Now, entering the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom ten minutes early, she finds herself immediately under the scrutiny of Professor Merrythought. It almost rattles her. Still, she smiles and greets the harsh woman. 

She seats herself in the back row and begins unpacking everything needed for the lesson. In the first class of the day, Charms, she had sat in the front and spent the whole class terrified at the inability to see everyone in the room. 

Even still, she nearly jumps out of her chair at the sound of quick footsteps entering the room. 

Someone gently clears their throat besides her and she shifts her gaze toward the sound. Standing beside her is an incredibly tall Slytherin boy gazing down in interest. 

“If it isn’t the girl I have heard so much about,” his voice implores, draping over her like a cloak of velvet, “good afternoon.” 

He has a breathtaking smile that sits perfectly welcome on his porcelain skin. 

“Yes, good afternoon.” She forces her face to soften into something polite. No need to make enemies. 

“If I may ask, what is your name?” Endlessly dark eyes gaze deeply into her own. He has eyes that see straight through you. Everything about him is sharp. As if all of the sudden, the world around him, just him, was too in focus.

“Hermione.” 

His eyebrows raise at her lack of an offered last name.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Hermione. My name is Tom Riddle and I am—“ he keeps talking but her heartbeat thundering in her ears drones his voice out. 

She is standing in front of Voldemort. 

Run away. Run away. Run away. Run. 

RUN. NOW. 

RUN.

NOW. NOW. 

RUN FROM HIM. 

Every fiber in Hermione’s body is taut with the utter wrongness of the situation. No longer capable of logical thought, the only thing keeping her rooted in place is the other phrase drifting in her conscious. 

You can kill him. 

Could she? 

This thought gives her a measure of confidence that was swept from beneath her feet merely seconds ago. 

Voldemort has noticed her lack of attention and has stepped closer. His mouth forms words asking toward her health. Sharp teeth line the cavern of his mouth. A mouth that will speak the words of murder toward hundreds for his own selfish gain. 

Murder. Horcruxes. Has he made any yet? That could be a goal of hers: to destroy his horcruxes so the day green light rebounds in Godric’s Hollow it truly ends him and saves countless lives. 

A feeling of urgency surges through her. 

Her tongue darts out to lick her lips before scrambling to provide an explanation for her silence, “Sorry, I am mildly out of practice at making polite conversation.” 

This is true. The most she had talked outside of fight or flight was only to her best friends. And this can also apply to current ambiguous Hermione who has escaped the Global Wizarding War. 

His features draw down in sympathy, “Apologies, I can gather formalities were not your priority as of late.” He steps forward slightly, with raised palms. Dark eyes soften as they scan her tense form. Her own honey ones remain trained on him, tracking his every move. Constant vigilance. 

With a hesitant nod, she ignores the screaming urge to take a step back. Hermione hopes and hopes and hopes that he doesn’t see through her to find a girl from the future, who knows more about him than she should. 

“Thank you for being so understanding,” she trails off, not knowing what to call him. Tom. Riddle. Mr. Riddle. Or Voldemort. She can trust herself not to use his self given name since his looks are irreconcilable with those of his future. 

“We can sit together if you would like, I can catch you up to speed on the coursework and answer any questions you have.” 

No, she would really rather not. But declining would be rude and she has already come across rude enough. Nothing is worth his wrath. 

“That would be nice.” A forced smile stretches uncomfortably across her face. 

His Head Boy badge gleams as he gestures for her to sit down again. That was most likely what he was talking about when she stopped listening to him. Of course, she ignores the fact that if she had ever gotten to be head girl it would be the first thing off her lips in an introduction also. 

She settles in once more and her focus dizzingly flares back out from being on him for so long.

The classroom is full. 

Her lungs squeeze. Her head whips to locate the door a few feet away. She slides her wand out of her holster.

It feels as if she has apparated right into a battle. 

Voices bounce off the walls around her, warped. Before her breathing escalates too rapidly, she focuses her jumpy attention on the hair of the girl seated in front of her. It is coifed. In her time students do not coif their hair. 

There is no immediate danger. 

With a long exhale through her nose, her brain finishes reshuffling and occulmency walls slam down tight. She is a fortress. Even from her memories. Especially them. 

Hermione sneaks a glance around the room and determines no one noticed her sudden fright. But, turning to the right, she finds Tom Riddle gazing upon her, eyebrows furrowed. He notices her attention and inclines his head, a dark curl falling across his forehead, before shifting focus to the Professor. 

She wants to scream. Oh dear Merlin. She displayed weakness in front of Voldemort. He could use this against her now. If only she had known how affected she would be coming from The War. That isn’t her only problem though. 

Her thoughts hover back to the idea of just offing the dark wizard. 

Is her thirst for revenge stronger than her thirst for justice? What are the consequences of actions in this time? Does what happens here directly reflect the future she came from, or has the act of time travel splintered off and made a new timeline? 

Can she even get back to her original timeline? Surely, since according to the Self-Consistency Principle, anything done just produces the circumstances found in the future. But that was true for a mere five hour time travel. 

Getting rid of the horcruxes seems like the least intrusive to the timeline out of all possible actions she could take against Voldemort. She has no doubt in her ability to find them. The only matter is how she would destroy them. Her two options are basilisk venom and fiendfyre. Killing the basilisk would risk altering the timeline too much. She has to master the fiendfyre curse. She also has to keep him from making more than he already has. Which should be only two. 

“Hermione.” A voice rumbles, too close to her ear. “Would you like to cast the spell or counter it first?” 

His form fades between this one and an even paler one with red eyes and no nose. One grins wickedly at her and the other stares calmly. She is glad her brain reminds her body to keep breathing because if it was up to her she would forget. 

Now is as good a time as any to see what he is capable of. To determine how prepared she should be. 

“I can counter.” He nods, and she wills herself to be calm, even without knowing what he will cast. She should have been paying attention to class. 

They stand and move to a corner of the room where other students aren’t already practicing. 

Shifting into a comfortable position, she prepares herself for the worst. 

He moves quickly, wand twisting in a knobby shape she recognizes as the jelly legs curse just as a spout of soft orange light expels from his yew wand in her direction.

Hermione casts the counter curse and pauses, unsure of what to do next. He looks nothing but intent, as if ready to counter something she will send his way. 

She repeats the jelly legs curse then holds her wand steady for all but a second to ensure it sends in the right direction then rapidly slashes the motions of a full body bind curse. Afterword she proactively casts a shield charm. Everything comes out with too much strength. An even more surprising amount for a wand she hasn’t gained the loyalty of yet. Like even it knows she has to stand firm against this opponent. 

Tom Riddle dispels both of her attacks, but looks mildly surprised at her forcefulness, “We were only to practice one curse at a time.” 

A blush heats her face. 

“Oh. I, I am sorry.” Her hands thread together, the walnut wand awkwardly sticking up between them. “It’s a result of habit.” 

“No worries.” He winks. He actually winks at her. 

The end of his words are punctuated by wand movement in the shape of dancing legs. Hermione counters with the general finite but, before she can send the same jinx back at him he follows through with a knock back jinx. She still counters it. 

The pair trades off back and forth between mild jinxes and curses for the rest of class. Hermione grows increasingly frustrated that she can’t manage to hit him with something. She realizes that is not the point since this isn’t a real duel, but she is irritated none the less. 

Professor Merrythought ends class and Hermione wastes no further time in summoning her bag and rushing out of the room. 

What, did she expect the Dark Lord to be subpar even at this age? No. Did she hope still hope so? Yes. 

The man of the hour nimbly slides into step with her, grinning from ear to ear. 

“That was fun.” He exhales, breathless and in excitement, almost more to himself than to her. 

“I suppose.” The Gryffindor purses her lips. Although, a small part of her agrees with him. She hurdles that part of her over her Occlumency walls, never to hear from again.

—

Tom loathes that he has to take a gentle approach with her. She is so very wary and reactive. He resigns himself. He can be something solid to lean against.


	3. Resistentialism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The theory that inanimate objects are hostile to humans; hostility manifested by inanimate objects.

Hermione stacks book upon book on the desk, building a fortress to surround and protect her. Books are still the same. Her one constant. After a week of normalcy her skin had begun to feel too tight, as if some animal inside of her needed, no— craved action. It felt irreconcilably odd to be attending classes while in the future a war raged on. As one did now, as well. However, this one she knew there would be an end to. And the cause of the end was currently sitting in the same castle as her.

Sighing deeply, she plucks a tome with white runic engravings promising to inform the reader of the broader implications of magical fire. The library had become her refuge once again and words cannot begin to describe how ecstatic she was to read things other than The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

Hermione had amassed quite a mix of genres for this Saturday reading. A few books on dragons because after riding one, she had become enraptured with them. A few books on recent history so she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb as a time traveler. And more than a few books on practical Defense Against the Dark Arts because her worst performing subject would have to become her best. Ever proactive , Hermione already got access to the restricted section. So she also had two dubiously dark books on deadly attacks because she knew the Jellylegs jinx wasn’t war material. 

Hermione is done with feeling underprepared. 

And in all honesty, her hands itched to hold a tome on time travel. But obviously if there were relevant and helpful books on it in Hogwarts it would be more of an occurrence. 

As she becomes immersed in reading, Hermione can’t help but be reminded about why she had never considered using Fiendfyre on the original Horcrux hunt. It was simply too unpredictable and they didn’t want to have a fire they couldn’t put out while on the run. But here she had access to the Room of Requirement. Once she felt strong enough in her understanding of the spell she would begin to practice it there, then grow proficient in aim and control of destroying random objects. Work her way up to a horcrux. 

Hermione wasn’t the owner of a large ego. But, she did like to think of herself as capable of applying knowledge successfully on most occasions. Fiendfyre, no matter the nastiness of it’s nature, would simply be another spell for her to master. 

Hours pass as a constant rain batters the tall window pane behind the witch. Books pass between her hands quicker than most, and with the monotonous sound of the rain and lack of other humans present in this end of the library, one could guess that days have passed. 

At a quarter past eight, a dark figure blocks her reading light. Looking up, a monster stands outside her fortress. She has to let it in in order to kill it. 

Her eyes blearily adjust to the difference in depth of focus as Hermione blinks rapidly. He was pretty good looking. For a monster. 

Voldemort looms over her, dark eyes flickering between the titles of her books and her hunched figure. 

She must be feeling lightheaded for numerous reasons as the day spent barely eating or moving catches up to her. But being in close proximity to the starring villain of her childhood takes the cake. 

They had been circling each other, keeping polite distance, at the library all week. They shared NEWT level Defense Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes, but thanks to house rivalries were sat among house ranks. There was a surprising amount of students attending Hogwarts at this time. Enough that there were two sections for every NEWT course. He still managed to send friendly waves her way whenever their paths crossed, which was suspiciously often. 

“It appears you have found the best spot in the library, Miss Hermione.” 

No Mr. Voldemort, I have found hell. 

“It appears I have.” 

She has to unwind her tensed muscles in order to reach for the sausage roll he offers as he sits down in the chair beside her. Her fingers brush against a ring and she stills. 

Of course she had noticed the big fat jeweled horcrux sitting on his finger a few days ago. But she hadn’t expected the feel of it to be so awful. It was the same feeling wearing Slytherin’s Locket gave her. Even a second in contact with the dreaded thing was enough to startle her to her bones. 

Dumbledore’s decaying hand flashes across her mind’s eye. Decayed. Will decay. 

She lets herself sink into a comfortable train of thought on proper tense usage, sidelining what she felt was a fit of panic coming along. 

Her static weary stare causes Riddle to assuage wrongly assumed worries, “I noticed that you missed every meal today.” He leans toward her, cupping his mouth. “Our secret. The books won’t tell.” 

“Thank you.” She forces out in a breathy exhale before taking a bite of the buttery pastry. Contorting her body back into a comfortable reading position, Hermione hopes Voldemort catches her drift and doesn’t try to talk to her anymore. 

He does, for a few minutes. 

“What is the best book you have read today?” 

Awfully nosy, this young Dark Lord. And how bold of him to interrupt her reading, which she thinks he finds as sacred as she does. And to ask for a recommendation! 

She decides to go with her honest answer. He wouldn’t do anything to harm her for boring him. At least perhaps this version. This thought comforts her in a way nothing has in a while. Also, it would be best to establish a sort of relationship with him so she can establish her harmlessness. 

At the same time as figuring out a way to destroy him. 

She passes him a burnt orange tome and monitors his face as he reads the title All the Magical Uses For Tea That Are Not Divination. 

Remembering her mother giving her chamomile tea with honey whenever she had trouble sleeping, Hermione had started consuming it every night before bed. Combined with the copious amounts of oolong she drank already, she mused that her body consisted of mostly tea and pastries at this point. They were the only things she could stomach consuming. Upon sitting herself at Gryffindor each meal and gazing upon the abundance of food heaped on the tables in the Great Hall she fought back the urge to stash piles of it in her bag. There had been no pastries when she was on the run. Those were safe and had always been her favorite. 

Riddle rests his thoughtful gaze on her in such a way that a shiver runs down her spine.

“I am saddened to say I have never considered magical uses for tea. Although, it is thought to have many health benefits, which I do have a book on in my rooms. Shall we cross reference?” 

She takes his eager form into consideration. It seems out of character for him to invite someone to his private Head Boy rooms. After keeping an eye on him all week she has figured out that he is rather particular about people not touching his things. When Cecily Longbottom had asked to borrow a spare quill he had almost painstakingly unfurled a delicate black feather from his grasp. 

So far that was the biggest contradiction she had evidence of against his presented character. 

She would take this opporuntiy. It could prove useful. 

“I would appreciate that.” 

“Great,” he beams, “Shall we?” He offers his hand to her and she reluctantly lets him pull her up. It doesn’t make sense for someone living to be as cold as he is; she almost flinches at the icy feeling. 

They hurry through the corridors. Hermione tunes out Voldemort’s hushed tour of Hogwarts, automatically nodding along when his eyes drag over her for acknowledgement. 

Coming to a stop in front of a painting of Julius Caesar, Riddle mutters the password under his breath and they step through to another small corridor with doors to the right and to the left. They go left and enter a massive common room looking space with a four poster bed set at a near awkward angle close to the fire place. There is a surprising lack of Slytherin colors and far too much black and grey. 

He easily moves about his room, prattling on about a few of his favorite books as he peruses his shelves to find the right one. Hermione feels oddly about how comfortable he is about sharing his private space. Which is startlingly clean. Breathing in through her nose, expecting to find the scent of perhaps a rotting dead hare under his bed, she is met with clean linen. 

Everything she saw of him caused a battle between what she knew and what she was observing. 

In her dreams, she kills him every night. 

In her nightmares, her friends die by his hands. Every night. 

And right now, he was fussing over a book on tea she had mentioned interest in. 

He isn’t the chaotic, deranged devil she was expecting. Instead, he is much worse. He was charismatic, brilliant, and stunning. Kind, even. 

She is beyond frustrated at his kindness. He is too nice. Too gentle. Too welcoming. Too friendly. Too many nice words. There has to be something wrong with him. How can someone who murdered his family be this normal?

Hermione wanders off to peruse the rest of his book selection. Waiting to see what he does. 

He doesn’t even glance at her.

She pulls a special edition of Hogwarts A History she hasn’t come across before. Opening it she finds the tale of the founders in the style of an illuminated manuscript. 

With a soft gasp her wide eyes dart up to Riddle who is leaning against a shelf and smirking at her. 

“Is that one a favorite of yours too?” 

Of bloody course they shared the same favorite book. How traitorous of Hogwarts a History. 

— then —

He couldn’t help himself. She was such a tempting individual. Such academic prowess wrapped in a war torn body. 

He had to have that all to himself. Even if it meant existing outside his lines of personal barriers. Hermione seemed the type to respond well to friendship and devotion and kindness. 

Give some now gain all of hers later, he figured. 

He was decided. 

He was to consume her. Devour her knowledge. Sup on the essence of her. Then spit her back out as a husk of a girl, lost to the wind. 

His gaze shifts to her delicate hands grasping the book. So thin. He could use them as toothpicks.


End file.
